


Sunset

by MirandaSwitch15



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:08:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25424404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MirandaSwitch15/pseuds/MirandaSwitch15
Summary: The war is over. Harry Potter has done what he was meant to do all his life; now he can't figure out what to do next.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Harry Potter
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22





	Sunset

**Author's Note:**

> My thanks to Fire the Canon, The Lady Arturia and halfravenhalfclaw over on ffn for betaing this chapter.

_ “even in the  _

_ darkness of night, _

_ I feel the _

_ moon’s glow _

_ on my skin;  _

_ peaceful,  _

_ pale  _

_ and full of promises” _

— Sabina Laura

* * *

It is far too breezy for an August evening. The wind blows in gusts through the open windows, blowing the sheer blue curtains apart and ruffling the bedlam that is Harry’s hair. The fleeting colours of dusk are fast fading as the sun dips below the horizon. Whatever clouds the sky has are wispy and painted a fiery red.

There is a loud yowl, followed by a few squeals, that drift up to Harry’s ears. Then a dull thud. Almost on instinct, his fingers reach for his wand, but then it hits him that it is only Crookshanks, most likely, chasing the gnomes in the garden of the Burrow. The half-Kneazle has taken to that hobby like a moth to a flame and spends most of his day either doing it, or sleeping, or curling up in Hermione’s lap by the warm fire. It reminds Harry of the times he and Ron had watched her doing her homework or reading books or just being in the Gryffindor Common Room during their years at Hogwarts. That seems ages ago, now.

The young man in question sits on the edge of the bed in the room he and Ron share, but he is alone at present. His red-haired best friend is downstairs with his family, at dinner — the same dinner that Harry had blatantly abandoned. He had earned himself a bunch of curious looks, and quite a few ones of concern, but he had ignored them.

In his fingers, he holds the letter that he has just retrieved from his mokeskin bag. It is old, the parchment is yellow and faded — the ink washed away by time and weather, and the whole thing is torn down the middle. He doesn’t mind. He just wants to sit there and hold the parchment, the same parchment that he knows was once touched and written-on by his mother.

A hand rises of its own accord to wipe at the wetness on the top of his cheek, and that’s when Harry realises he is crying. He blinks the tears hurriedly out of his eyes in an attempt to compose himself. The war ended almost two months ago, and he does not want to dwell on it anymore. 

But it all still feels so surreal. All of it — the battle, the victory, the several deaths it cost, and most of all, the fact that he is still alive. Ever since Dumbledore had told him about the prophecy, he had stopped believing that he could make it through the war, no matter how much he — or the others — tried to convince him otherwise. And now that he has actually survived the ordeal — done what he was meant to do — he has no idea where to go, or what to do next.

The nightmares haven’t stopped. Afraid he’ll wake Ron or the others up, he casts a Silencing Charm on himself every night before going to bed. His only hope is that Ron does not wake up in the middle of the night and catch him writhing and screaming soundlessly in his sleep. 

He does not want to impose on the Weasleys any longer. Fred’s death is still fresh on everyone’s minds, and even though no one lets it on, Harry knows that they need their time to grieve alone. He needs it, too. And he has made his mind — he’ll leave. Maybe if he’s lucky, he’ll find something to do while he is on this aimless journey he plans to set off on.

He begins to rummage through the contents of his trusty mokeskine bag. He doesn’t even know what he’s looking for. He winces when his finger brushes the harsh edge of something sharp and jagged. He draws it out of the bag to see blood oozing out of it, and his eyes widen. The recollections hit him like a freight train — blood trickling down Fred’s forehead, the pink scar on Hermione’s neck, Dobby’s red-stained body, George’s severed ear, Ron’s Splinched arm…

He is jolted abruptly out of his reverie by a knock on the door. 

“Harry? Are you in there?”

It’s Hermione. For a second, he considers not responding. But he does. 

“I’m here,” he says. His eyes turn towards the door as it opens with a small creak. Hermione enters the room. In her hand is a sandwich wrapped in a napkin. The sight is incredibly familiar.

“Hey,” she whispers, sitting down on the bed beside him. He feels the mattress dip a little with her weight.

“Hey,” he echoes, not meeting her eyes.

“I brought you something,” she says, holding up the sandwich. “You can eat it. If you’re hungry, that is.”

“I’m not,” Harry replies. “But thank you.”

“It’s no problem,” she says gently. “Can I stay here for a while?” she then asks, a hint of uncertainty in her voice. Harry nods.

She lifts her bare feet onto the bed and crosses her legs. The two of them settle into a comfortable quietude. Harry pulls the strings on the mokeskine pouch shut and flings it into his trunk, which lies against a wall near the window.

Harry turns to look at Hermione then. She’s half-facing him, and staring at her feet, and Harry takes a moment to watch her. She’s dressed in the zip-up jersey she’s worn all morning, and dark blue trousers. Her hair is twisted into a careless knot at the top of her head, her vinewood wand slid through it to keep the curls in place.

Her jersey isn’t zipped all the way up, and the reddish, crimped line of skin that pokes its head out of the front of her shirt, starting from the top of her collarbone, catches his attention. The scar from Dolohov’s mystery spell that Hermione had to face at the Department of Mysteries. His fingers involuntarily reach out to touch it. 

Hermione starts, her eyes snapping up to meet his. He thinks he sees one of her eyebrows arch in a questioning fashion, but it is gone almost as soon as it appears. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, wincing inwardly at how the disfigurement feels against his skin. 

“What for?” Hermione asks.

“You didn’t have to have these — these — scars on you. You didn’t do anything to deserve them. I’m sorry.”

“Harry?”

His finger then brushes over the raised line on her throat from Bellatrix’s knife. “I am so sorry,” he says again, not knowing what else he could say.

Hermione takes hold of his wrist and wraps her fingers around it. “Harry,” she says, firmly.

He can’t make himself look at her. He’s afraid he’ll see the accusation written all over her face.

“It’s not your fault. None of this is your fault. Don’t say it is.”

She speaks in a low voice, trying to make him understand. 

“Please, Harry,” she continues. “It’s Voldemort who’s responsible for all this. Not you. Don’t ever say you’re sorry.”

She touches his chin to make him look at her.

“Are you really going back to Hogwarts?” he asks suddenly, surprising himself as well as Hermione.

She considers his question. 

“Yes,” she answers quietly. “Yes, I am.”

“Oh. Right.”

Hermione sighs and gives a slow nod. 

“I have to, Harry,” she says. “I wish you would as well.”

“I can’t, Hermione. It’s just — ” He fumbles for words.

Hermione cups her chin in both her hands. “I know,” she says. “I’m just going to miss you, is all. What are you going to do, then?”

It is Harry who sighs next. “Ron was talking about Auror training…” 

Hermione looks at him knowingly. “Do you want to join him?”

“It’s what everyone wants me to do.”

“Everyone?”

Harry gestures wildly with his hands. “Everyone. I don’t know, people. The wizarding world. They all expect me to become an Auror. But I don’t think it’s what I want to do.”

Hermione nods. 

“What do you want to do then?”

“Travel,” he says simply, and if Hermione’s surprised, she’s doing a good job of not letting it show on her face.

“I want to go somewhere,” he continues, “and do something constructive that I actually like.”

“I get it. But, Harry?”

He meets her eyes. “Yeah?”

She twists her fingers in her lap and bites her bottom lip. “You’ll keep in touch, won’t you?  _ Won’t you _ ?”

He keeps quiet for a second or two. 

“Yes,” he says eventually, the corner of his lip quirking upwards when he sees Hermione’s eyes light up. The rays of the dying sun reflect off her face, and her hair takes the colour of burnt gold. 

“Hermione?”

They both start, and then look up at the door at the same time. It’s Mrs Weasley. She’s standing at the doorway, wiping her hands on her flower-patterned apron. 

“Are you alright, Harry?”

Harry nods and gives the Weasley matriarch a small smile. 

“Hermione, dear, there’s a package from Professor McGonagall for you,” Mrs Weasley says, looking at Hermione.

“Oh, I’ll be downstairs in a moment to get it,” she says. “Thank you, Mrs Weasley.”

Molly nods at the two of them, then turns around and they hear her walk down the rickety staircase.

Hermione takes Harry’s hand again and leans forward to press her lips to his forehead. When she pulls back, she gives him a comforting smile, which he returns.

“Do you want to go outside?” she asks.

Harry purses his lips, looking sideways out of the window.

“It’s alright,” Hermione says. “I’ll be back soon.”

Then she lets go of his hand, stands up, and in the next minute, she’s gone. 

Harry is surprised to feel a strange sort of loneliness in her absence. With a sigh, he leans backwards until he is lying on the bed.

Above him, a Bludger zooms past an orange-robed Chudley Cannons Chaser, who throws the Quaffle at her teammate. The other Chaser catches it, then flies out of sight.

Outside, it’s dark already, and one by one the stars begin to appear.

* * *

_ Dear Hermione, _

_ Rome is, in a word, breathtaking. I’ve rented a modest flat close to Septimus Square, which is the Roman equivalent of Diagon Alley. You’d never believe how fantastic it is not to be hounded by the press when I go there. Ron told me in his last letter that those blokes from the  _ Prophet  _ have stopped cornering them outside of the joke shop for news about me. That’s a good sign, don’t you think? _

_ It’s no surprise you’re Head Girl, really. There’s no one who deserves it more than you, Hermione. Speaking of you, there’s a lot of historic stuff about this place that you’d love, I reckon. I met a wizard at the Pantheon last week, who told me there’s apparently some magical connection with the building. I’m going to the bookshop tomorrow, and I’ll see if there’s any book about it so I can send it to you. Consider it an early Christmas present. _

_ The food here is wonderful, by the way. I had something called Maritozzi for dessert last night. It is kind of a sweet bun. I’m trying to get my hands on the recipe, then I’m going to try to make some myself. And for you and Ron (and the others) when I get back.  _

_ I miss you all a lot, too. I’ll try to be back for Christmas. If not, rest assured that I’ll meet you during Easter — in person.  _

_ Love, _

_ Harry _

_ P.S.: Good luck for your Charms practical next week. Although you don’t really need it, now, do you? You are going to do great anyway. _

**Author's Note:**

> I have the next chapter more-or-less mapped out in my mind, I only just need to write it down. This works as a oneshot too, though, I guess.
> 
> For those of you waiting for an update on Of A Feather, I am working on it. I completed chapter eight last week itself, but it doesn't feel up to the mark, so I'll upload it after some tweaking.
> 
> Thank you for reading, and stay safe :)


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